


Fevered

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: Denmark Street musings [1]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-10 11:47:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14736392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: A gift for reindeerjumper.“i’m a sucker for sick cormoran, if you are taking vague prompts :p”





	Fevered

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reindeerjumper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reindeerjumper/gifts).



> A gift for reindeerjumper.
> 
> “i’m a sucker for sick cormoran, if you are taking vague prompts :p”

At five to nine, Robin arrived at the office and found the door locked. She scrabbled in her bag for her keys and let herself in. She carried Strike’s coffee through and put it on his desk. She put hers and the post on her desk, hung up her bag and coat. Familiar little routines that she went through every morning. 

As she sometimes did these days, now they were closer friends, she sent Strike a jokey text. “Are you awake??? ;)” - usually this woke him and he’d appear sheepishly a few minutes later, embarrassed to have overslept again.

She sorted through the post, dividing it into junk, bills and client requests. No nutter letters today, always a good thing. She glanced at her watch. Almost ten past and still no Strike.

She frowned a little, thinking. He could have gone straight out on surveillance, she supposed. She ran a mental checklist of his cases and couldn’t imagine why. Sometimes he had random ideas that he went to follow up, but he usually texted her to let her know.

It was of course entirely possible that he hadn’t spent the night at home. Occasionally he spent the night at Nick and Ilsa’s, though she had never known him to do so in the week. Or perhaps he could have met someone? He hadn’t mentioned seeing anyone, but Robin would probably never have known about Elin if she hadn’t popped into the office. Strike was eternally closed-lipped about his private life.

Either way, though, he wouldn’t have been late for work.

A drinking night? She wondered. But he’d not said he was going out. And it had been a long, long time since he’d gone on one of his big drinking benders and made himself late for work.

Perhaps I should check on him, she thought. I could ring his mobile...? She hesitated, torn between concern and not wanting to pry. He was such a private man. Gah, what if he’s with a woman and I ring him, she thought. Just thinking about that made her cringe awkwardly. He’s probably fine, she told herself. He’s a grown-up, he can look after himself.

She fired up her computer and started work. There were a couple of invoices to prepare and some notes to type up. But she was restless, kept losing the thread of sentences, her fingers clumsy on the keys so that she had to keep deleting typos.

After half an hour, with almost nothing achieved, she sighed and stopped. It was almost 10am now. He was never this late, he would have texted.

She got up, walked to the window and stood looking down at the street. Everything was so normal. She hesitated some more, then made up her mind. She rang his mobile. It rang and rang, then went to voicemail. She was starting to feel quite worried.

She thought for a moment, then walked through to stand in his office, mobile in hand. She rang his number again, and turned the volume on hers right down. She stood and listened. There. She could hear it - not the ring, but the vibration of a phone buzzing on a wooden bedside table that was stood on a wooden floor above her head. Strike’s mobile was definitely in his flat, in his bedroom. Which meant surely he was, too?

She stood in his office, tapping her phone with restless fingers, thinking. I have to check, she thought. What if something’s happened?

Halfway up the stairs to his flat, she paused. What if he’d had a woman stay over? She flushed at the thought of the embarrassment she’d be causing by knocking on his door. But no, he still wouldn’t have been so late for work or ignored his phone.

Resolve hardening, she marched to the top of the stairs and knocked on his door, a little louder than she’d intended. Nothing.

Cautiously she tried the handle, and it opened. She’d had a feeling he wouldn’t be over-conscious about locking it.

“Cormoran?” she called through the gap, pushing the door a little. It swung open. His living room was immaculate as always, and empty.

The door to his bedroom was half open. She approached it with trepidation. She’d never seen inside his bedroom. “Cormoran?” she said, softly now. “Are you okay? I’m... I’m coming in to check on you.” Nervously she peered round the door.

He was asleep, flat out on his back in bed, but she could see at once that he wasn’t right. His face was white, with spots of high colour on his cheekbones. He was sheened in sweat, his breathing rough. He was twisted in the covers, his T-shirt sweat-soaked.

Caution forgotten, Robin went straight in. “Cormoran?” she said again, gently. She put her hand on his forehead. He was searingly hot, and now she was closer she could see he was shivering in his sleep.

“God, you’re burning up,” she murmured. She looked around. “Right.”

Okay, she thought. Paracetamol, water, and he’s... going to need a dry T-shirt. She decided not to think about that just yet. She retreated to his kitchenette, and after a brief pause to wrestle with her conscience, started going through his cupboards. She soon found paracetamol and a pint glass which she filled with water and took back through to him. She put them on his bedside table.

She poked her head into the tiny bathroom and grabbed a towel, put it on the bed next to him. Then she turned her attention to the chest of drawers. Top drawer will likely be boxers and socks, she thought. She imagined his boxers would be just as sweat soaked as his T-shirt, but that was going to have to be tough luck. There are limits, she thought wryly. Most of which I’m already crossing, but that would definitely be too far. Gosh, I hope he’s wearing some. Another thing not to think about.

Seeing a gem of humour in the situation helped. She vaguely wondered if perhaps she should be calling Nick and Ilsa, or Lucy, but she knew he’d not want a fuss. He’d probably not even want her looking after him, but she couldn’t just leave him.

She opened the second drawer down and grabbed a T-shirt from the neatly folded pile. It warmed her heart to see that he was as meticulous in his personal life as he was at work. Smiling fondly, she shook it out and returned to the bed.

She took a deep breath.

“Cormoran,” she said, more firmly now. Matron voice, she thought. She remembered how her mum had taken care of her and her brothers when they were ill. “Come on, let’s get you sorted.”

There was no response. She sat down on the edge of the bed and reached out a hand to his shoulder. He was, as she suspected, soaked with sweat. She could feel the heat radiating off him as the fever raged. His hair was even more dishevelled than normal, and curls stuck to the sweat on his forehead. God, he must feel awful, she thought.

She shook him awake gently. He resisted strongly, muttering and turning away from her, but she persisted and managed to drag him to some semblance of consciousness. His eyes when he opened them made her heart melt for him. They were bright, glittering with fever, red-rimmed. He looked at her in confusion, foggy brain not understanding why he was seeing her out of context.

“Come on, you,” she said. “You’re pretty poorly. We need to get some paracetamol down you and get you into a clean T-shirt, and I need you awake enough to quiz you a bit to see if you need a doctor.”

He gazed at her blearily for a long moment, trying to process what she’d said. She smiled fondly at the befuddled look in those normally fierce, piercing eyes. Then his fevered brain appeared to reach a decision.

“Go ‘way,” he said, turning over to sink back into sleep.

Laughing softly, she dragged on his shoulder, trying to pull him back towards her. “Cormoran, come on,” she said, gently. He was refusing to budge. There was only one thing for it. She took a breath.

“Cormoran Strike,” she said, clearly and sternly, “come here and sit up.” It was a direct order.

He rolled slowly back towards her and peered up at her, one eyebrow slightly raised. She was relieved to see it, a hint of humour through a haze of fever. He’s not too desperately ill, then, she thought. He still looked awful, though.

“Come on,” she said, smiling. “The quicker you do as you’re told, the sooner I’ll leave you alone.”

He ran a large hand over his pale face, sighed, and started to try to struggle up. She helped him. My God, he’s heavy, she thought. She couldn’t believe how searing hot his entire body was. They managed to get him sitting up. He swayed slightly, and she could see he was dizzy.

“Medicine first,” she said, passing him two paracetamol and the water. “Drink plenty, you’re sweating buckets.” He took the tablets in a shaking hand. He swallowed them and half the water obediently, meek now. He cast a sideways glance at her, his eyes bright with fever, but he didn’t ask what she was doing here in his flat, tending to him.

“Right. Clean T-shirt,” she said, brandishing it. “Off with that one.”

He hesitated, and she thought he was going to refuse, but then he slowly peeled the T-shirt off over his head. He shivered violently at the cool air on his damp, heated skin. Robin tossed the soaked T-shirt to the floor and cast a swift glance across all of him that she could see, checking for any sign of a rash, but there was none. Not that she could see easily with the mat of hair swathed across his chest and stomach. He was carrying too much weight round his belly, she noticed. But his shoulders and back were broad and muscular. She noted with relief that he was in fact wearing boxers. She pulled her gaze away from him, from his strength and his body hair, feeling a little voyeuristic to be looking when he was so ill, and reached for the towel.

He shivered miserably as she dried his back, his teeth clattering together. She was overwhelmed with affection for him. It was all she could do not to wrap her arms around him. He looked like a giant sick little boy. She passed him the towel to dry his front - that just seemed too intimate for her to do, somehow - and then she pulled the clean T-shirt over his head and helped him get his arms into it. He was pliant, obedient, almost as if he enjoyed being looked after, though she found that hard to believe.

“Right,” she said. “Do we need to see about changing these sheets? I can change them if you get up. Have you got spares?”

“Not getting up,” he mumbled, and she supposed she couldn’t make him. She turned his pillows over so they’d be cooler and helped him settle back down. He shivered, burrowing into the pillows, unable to decide if he was too hot or too cold. Robin ran a hand over his bed covers. The top seemed dry.

“I’m going to flip your covers, this side’s dry,” she said. She stood and, without giving him time to protest, she pulled the duvet from him, flipped it expertly over and laid it back down again. It was the work of a moment, and she carefully didn’t look him in the eye - or anywhere else - as she did so, concentrating on the task at hand.

Strike had opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again. He watched blearily as she gathered up his sweaty T-shirt from the floor where she’d dropped it and tossed it into the laundry hamper in the corner. She went to the bathroom to wet a washcloth, and came back and sat on the bed. She smiled down at him tenderly and wiped it over his face and forehead. In his dizzy, fevered state, he could almost imagine she was some kind of angel, haloed in red and gold.

Dry now and warmer, his shivering eased, and he was soon drifting towards sleep again, breathing roughly still, but gradually cooling as the medicine began its work.

Robin sat and mopped his brow some more, even though it didn’t need it. She put the washcloth on his bedside table and laid a hand on his forehead again. He was definitely less hot now. She arranged the covers around him loosely, so that he was warm but could push them away if he got too hot. Her hand made its way back to his forehead. She smoothed his skin, marvelling at the softness of it, and then found her hand creeping up over his forehead and into his hair, stroking the surprisingly soft curls, running her fingers through them. What are you doing? She asked herself. But she had no answer other than he just looked so gorgeous, even when sick, and she’d probably never get another chance to touch him like this. He shifted restlessly in his sleep, but his eyes remained closed.

“I’ll come and check on you later,” she whispered. She stood and looked around. He had water and his phone within reach and he’d had tablets. He just needed to sleep it off now. A last, lingering look at his sleeping form, and she quietly let herself out and went back down to her desk.

 

 

 


End file.
